


Reused Usernames and Revealing Playlists

by lincyclopedia



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Music, POV Third Person, POV Third Person Limited, Phone Calls & Telephones, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:36:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27171182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lincyclopedia/pseuds/lincyclopedia
Summary: Jack and Kent have playlists about each other, which Kent figures out when he searches Jack's old Livejournal username on Spotify and finds a public account. Kent likes Jack's playlist about him, which leads to Jack finding Kent's account, which leads to a phone call and a much-needed conversation. Set in 2012 (though the details about Spotify may not be very 2012-ish).
Relationships: Kent "Parse" Parson & Jack Zimmermann
Comments: 2
Kudos: 42





	Reused Usernames and Revealing Playlists

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was born when I realized that I could search the names of fictional characters on Spotify and find other people’s playlists for those characters, though that’s not quite what this fic is about. I’ve only had a Spotify account for like a year and a half, and I still don’t totally understand all the functionality, so this fic is probably going to get some things wrong about how Spotify worked last decade. Please either suspend your disbelief or back-button out now.

Back when Jack and Kent were in each other’s lives, they were _really_ in each other’s lives. They weren’t just linemates and boyfriends; they knew each other’s phone passcodes and shit like that. So of _course_ they knew each other’s childish first email addresses and Livejournal usernames. Even years after their breakup and Jack’s overdose, Kent still can’t forget those kinds of details about Jack. 

It’s spring of 2012, Kent has just lost a hockey game, and he’s drunk at home by himself. Sometimes, in situations like this, he tries looking Jack up on social media, but he’s done that enough to know it’s useless. Jack isn’t on Instagram or Twitter, at least that Kent can find. Kent knows Jack is on Facebook, but Jack unfriended and blocked him years ago, and Jack’s account was always unsearchable anyway. 

Kent’s scrolling through his Spotify, trying to decide what kind of playlist to listen to tonight, when something occurs to him. What if Jack reused his Livejournal username for other sites? Not anything as IRL-connected as Instagram or Twitter, where celebrities and even ordinary people are supposed to be recognizable, but something a little more anonymous? Like, say, Spotify? 

Kent sticks his tongue out a bit, focusing on his little phone keyboard as he tries to get the letters in the right order (despite being drunk) for long enough to type “hockeylaurent” into the search bar. 

Holy shit. It’s right there. A whole fucking Spotify account, public. Kent taps into it and scrolls through the playlists. Most of them have boring, straightforward, exercise-related names like “Morning run” and “Cardio” and “Lifting weights.” Some of them have titles that are more emotional but still straightforward, like “Stop being angry” and “After a loss” and “Cheer up.” But then, at the bottom of the page, the second playlist this account ever created—right after a playlist called “Recovery”—is “Missing him.” It was created in 2009. 

Holy. Shit. Kent taps on the playlist, holding his breath. 

It’s a mix of several artists, but it’s heaviest on Britney Spears and Barenaked Ladies, and Kent is laugh-sobbing before he realizes what’s happening. He’s definitely the “him” in the title, then, with all the Britney Spears. As for the BNL—Jack is so Canadian, and so into dad rock, and there’s really nothing for it but to laugh and cry all at once because this is _them_ , in one playlist, and it’s called “Missing him” and Jack hasn’t deleted it even though it’s almost three years old. 

Kent puts the playlist on shuffle and the first song that plays is “Enid” by the Barenaked Ladies. It’s a song about young love breaking down, and Kent didn’t think he remembered the lyrics—he hasn’t listened to the Barenaked Ladies in a long time, not even while drunk; they were Jack’s favorite band but Kent never liked them, not even a little—but he finds himself screaming along, wondering if Jack believes the line “Enid, we never really knew each other anyway.” Kent hopes not. He doesn’t want that to be true. He’s spent years at this point wondering if anyone will ever understand him as well as Jack did. It would be devastating to find out that Jack doesn’t think that understanding ever existed at all. 

The song ends and “Toxic” starts instead. Jack always hated Britney’s music, and it’s hard to imagine him voluntarily listening to this. But he put the playlist together, didn’t he? What does it all mean? 

Before Kent can stop himself, he clicks the little heart on the playlist.

* * *

When Jack turns his phone on upon waking up, he sees a Spotify notification mixed in with the Facebook reminder that it’s his cousin’s birthday, the weekly Samwell email newsletter for students announcing on-campus events, and the text from Shitty asking if Jack has seen Shitty’s good tie. Intrigued, Jack taps on the Spotify notification, only to suddenly forget how to breathe when he sees what it says. 

_britneyrox liked your playlist “Missing him”_

Jack tries to tell himself that britneyrox is a perfectly generic username and could be anyone, but it doesn’t work. That was Kent’s Livejournal username ( _and hockeylaurent was yours, you idiot; of course he was able to find you_ ) and the playlist britneyrox liked is the one about Kent. It matches up too perfectly for it to be a coincidence. 

Fuck. 

Because Jack is something of a masochist, he taps through to britneyrox’s playlists. They’ve got names like “Vegas, babey!” and “It’s Britney, bitch” and “Too sexy for my shirt,” but there’s one from back in 2009 called “My fault.” Jack clicks on it and gets almost lightheaded just looking at it. The first song on the playlist is “The Freshmen” by The Verve Pipe, which . . . fuck, that’s a pretty damn obvious reference to Jack’s overdose. What’s more, a lot of the other songs are what Kent would have called “dad rock”—in other words, Jack’s genre, not Kent’s. This must be a guilt/nostalgia playlist for Kent, as much as “Missing him” is for Jack. 

The truth is that Jack hasn’t listened to “Missing him” much lately. It was his go-to playlist for a long time, especially when he wanted to make himself feel how badly he’d fucked up and how much he missed Kent. But he’s—not _fully_ stabilized; he still has panic attacks on a semi-regular basis, but he’s gotten somewhat better over the past few years. He doesn’t hurt himself on purpose as often anymore, not even just with music (though still with exercise, sometimes), and his regrets are bigger than just Kent. 

Still, though. “My fault” is a pretty grim name for a playlist. Does Kent really believe that it’s his fault Jack overdosed? Jack hopes not, because that would be bullshit. And to carry that guilt around for years . . . fuck, that would be awful. 

Before Jack has fully decided to do it, he’s thumbing through his contacts, looking for Kent’s number, and then dialing. 

The phone rings for a while, and then the call finally connects and Kent’s voice, blurrily, says something to the effect of “Whaaaa?”

“Kenny,” says Jack, before immediately cursing himself. They haven’t spoken in three years and Jack isn’t in love with Kent anymore. This is not the time for _nicknames_. 

“Zimms?” Kent suddenly sounds more awake, and apparently feels differently about nicknames—or maybe he’s on the same kind of autopilot Jack is. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, fine. How are _you_?” Jack asks. 

“Zimms, you literally have not spoken to me for three years. You cannot possibly be calling me to _check in_. What is this really about?”

“Crisse, Kent, suspicious much?” 

“You fucking _ghosted_ me _three years ago_. I think I’m entitled to some suspicion,” Kent returns. 

“Okay, fair,” says Jack. “You liked my Spotify playlist. The one about you. So I checked your account and I saw the playlist called ‘My fault’ and—you do know it wasn’t your fault, don’t you?”

Kent makes a punched-out noise, and then Jack is pretty sure what he’s hearing is sobbing. 

“Kenny?” Fuck, Jack’s autopilot is strong. 

“I’ve been—I’ve been blaming myself for—for literal _years_ and all this time it _wasn’t my fault_?” Kent gasps out. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you needed to hear that,” says Jack. “I needed space—I’m still not sure that’s changed, actually—but it wasn’t your _fault_. There was a lot of hard, shitty stuff going on, but most of it had nothing to do with you.” When Kent’s only response is more sobbing, Jack adds, “I didn’t realize you thought it was your fault, and I’m sorry for not telling you this earlier.” 

“You don’t—don’t need to apologize,” Kent manages eventually. “I’m not—I’m not _mad_.” 

“Still, though,” says Jack. “It sounds like thinking it was your fault hurt you. That wasn’t my goal.” 

“What was your goal, then?” Kent asks, still crying but sounding a bit sharp somehow, too. 

“To recover!” Jack says. “Ghosting you wasn’t about you. Not about hurting you, but not about protecting you, either. It was just about me.” 

“Okay,” says Kent. “I suppose that’s fair.” 

“Maybe it was fair,” Jack agrees, “but I don’t know that it was good. For you. So I’m sorry.” 

“Thanks,” says Kent. Then he yawns. 

Jack checks his bedside clock and realizes that, since it’s 6:54 a.m. on the East Coast, it’s 3:54 a.m. in Las Vegas, where Kent is. ( _That is where Kent is, right? He’s not on the East Coast or something for a roadie? No, last night the Aces played the Ducks at home and lost. Right._ ) “Tabarnak,” Jack swears. “I’m sorry. I woke you up in the middle of the night.” 

“Not the first time, Zimms,” says Kent. 

“Still. I didn’t realize. I’m sorry.” 

“Seems like there are a lot of things concerning me that you don’t realize until it’s too late,” says Kent. 

“Sorry,” Jack mutters.

Kent sighs. “No, I’m sorry. I think I’m still a little drunk from last night, and I’m being an asshole.” 

“Maybe a little, but I think I was an asshole first,” says Jack. 

“Maybe,” Kent allows. “But still.” He pauses and then says, “So you think you still might need space? Because I’d like to be able to talk to you, but I know that’s not something I can force.” 

“I think—I think I can handle texting,” says Jack. “Maybe not more than that right now. And I’ll let you know if I need less or if I can handle more.” 

“Okay,” says Kent. “I can live with that.” And then, fervently: “The closet sucks.” 

“Yeah,” Jack agrees. “It does.” And this, he realizes—as much as he was always in competition with Kent and as bad as that was for him—this is something he’s missed. Because he’s not out to anyone other than his parents and Kent, not even Shitty, and it does suck, and Kent gets it. 

Kent starts to talk about the homophobes on his team and how terrified he is of ever needing to be out to anyone in the Aces organization at all, and part of Jack clenches with fear for his own NHL prospects, but another part of him relaxes. He’s glad to be having this conversation. He’s glad to be talking to someone who knows him and who’s experiencing some things he may someday experience himself. He’s pretty sure Kent is in his corner, and he’s pretty sure he’s in Kent’s corner, too.

Jack doesn’t have much to say when Kent finishes his rant, so the conversation wraps up quickly after that, with plans to text going forward. After hanging up, Jack stares at his phone, unsure what to do now. It feels like something in the very foundation of his life has fundamentally shifted. 

Spotify is still open to the “My fault” playlist. Jack clicks the back button but then, upon seeing all of Kent’s other playlists, taps on “Vegas, babey!” It’s not his type of music, really, but it feels good to listen to it this morning on his run.


End file.
